


The Wild Hunt

by Avery11



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Halloween Challenge 2011, Ireland, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:23:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and Napoleon spend a harrowing night atop a mountain. Briefly violent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wild Hunt

 

Napoleon crested the arête, breathing heavily from the long trek across the _Faha_ Ridge and up the rugged east slope of _Cnoc Bréanainn._ Groaning, he dropped to the ground beside an ancient, lichen-crusted stone wall, and reached for his canteen.

“Tell me,” he inquired of an equally exhausted Illya, "is there a mountain left in Ireland that we haven't climbed in the past two weeks?”

“If there is, please do not mention it to Mr. Waverly.” He sank down beside his friend, and dug into his backpack for the bag of trail mix. “Still, if our efforts can help to pinpoint Doctor Dabree's whereabouts --”       
  
  “Dabree is dead, Illya. She died four years ago. You were there.”

“Her body was never recovered.”

“No one falls five stories down an elevator shaft and survives. THRUSH merely got to her body first.”

Illya popped a slice of dried apple into his mouth. “We don't know that for certain. In any event, it stands to reason that Mr. Waverly would want to be sure, considering what she nearly did to him.”

Napoleon repressed a shudder. The memory of Waverly, pale and still, strapped to Dabree's lobotomy table, still gave him nightmares.

“The sighting is credible, Napoleon. We should not dismiss it.”

“Who --?”

“Maureen Callaghan.”

That stopped him. “From Cryptography? Red-headed Maureen with the adorable dimples and the degree from Stanford? She's the source?”

“One and the same. Apparently, she was here in Cloghane last week to attend her sister's wedding. She swears she saw Doctor Dabree and that creepy assistant of hers having lunch at The Stag's Head Pub.”

“Well, she's a credible witness, that's for sure. Still --” Napoleon ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I'm sure Maureen meant well, but whoever she saw, I very much doubt it was Dabree. For one thing, no one's seen so much as a bifocal of that horrid woman in four years. If she's been alive all that time, where's she been hiding? And more importantly, why resurface now?”

“When we find her, we may learn the answers to those questions.”

“ _If_ we find her.” He wedged his body closer to the stone wall, the better to shield himself from the gusting wind. “At the moment, I don't care where that miserable woman is. I'm cold, filthy, and hungry enough to eat one of Mrs. Waverly's fruitcakes. All I want is a hot shower and a soft bed.”

“And a comely maid to massage away your aches and pains?”

“Hell, I'm so tired, I don't even care about the comely maid. Just tell me there's a pub at the top of this godforsaken mountain where we can get some dinner and a pint of good ale.”

Illya's expression said it all. “There is, however, a small _bothy_ , or caretaker's cottage, near the summit where we can spend the night if you are tired. Or, we could try to make it down the other side of the mountain.”

Napoleon scanned the horizon, calculating the distance down to the mist-shrouded village of Ballybrack, and the chill waters of _Locha Choman Chnoic_ far below. He estimated that they could reach the village before nightfall if they kept moving. “Ballybrack it is.”  
  
_We are coming._

Illya glanced around, feeling a curious prickle of unease. He forced himself to concentrate. “We will have a little over two hours to reach the base of the mountain. However, the worst of the climb is behind us. From here on, we follow the Pilgrim's Path to the top, and then it's a series of easy switchbacks down the other side.”

“Pilgrim's Path? Sounds simple enough.” Napoleon watched the mist rising from the valley floor, devouring the lower half of the mountain. “Strange, isn't it, how quickly the weather's changed? There wasn't a cloud in the sky this morning --”

_Soon._

Illya spun around, his heart pounding in his chest.

Without conscious thought, Napoleon moved into a defensive crouch, half-drawing his weapon. “Illya?”

“I thought I heard something.” He listened for a moment, and shook his head. “I must have imagined it.”

Napoleon holstered his Walther. He exhaled, releasing the tension lodged in his neck and shoulders. “What's going on, _tovarisch_? You've been jumpy all afternoon.”

Illya hesitated. “It's this mountain. There is something -- not right about it.”

Napoleon knew better than to dismiss his friend's intuition. It had gotten them out of more scrapes than he cared to count. “Can you be more specific?”

“I keep -- hearing things. Things that aren't there.”

“What sort of things?”

Illya shrugged. “Voices. Warnings. I don't know.”

“Okay,” Napoleon replied thoughtfully. “Let's assume that it's not your imagination working overtime. We'll keep moving and stay alert. With any luck, we'll be off the mountain in a couple of hours.”

Illya nodded gratefully.

They resumed their climb with the wind whipping bitterly at their backs. It flung bits of dried grass into the air, and raised dust devils where their feet had passed.

“Tell me more about this road we're on,” Napoleon said as he pulled on a pair of gloves.

“It is also called _Cosán Na Naomh_ , The Saint's Road. It was a route followed by early Christian worshipers seeking the blessing of Saint Brendan. However, the path actually predates Christianity as a pilgrimage route. Followers of the the ancient pagan god, Lugh, held a yearly festival here.”

“So the mountain has always been a religious site?”

“Perhaps 'mystical' is a more accurate term,” Illya replied thoughtfully. “The Celts believed that evil is always in the world, and they sought to understand its nature. Hence their fascination with magical creatures such as trolls and dragons, and with dark lore.”

“Then it's not all sunshine and rainbows?”

“Not at all. In Celtic mythology, Light and Darkness go hand in hand. One is seldom present without the other. Even fairies have a malevolent side. They can be wise and kind, or capricious, with a contempt for mortals that borders on cruelty. Leprechauns may be clever and charming one moment, devious and self-serving the next. And of course, there is The Wild Hunt.”

A huge crack of thunder split open the sky. The air smelled faintly of ozone.

_We are coming._

The hackles rose on the back of Illya's neck.

“The voices?”

Illya nodded. “Perhaps we should keep moving.”

They picked up their pace.

“So, you were saying before? About this 'Wild Hunt?'”

Illya picked up the tale, grateful for the distraction. “According to legend, there was once an island realm far to the west of here, an earthly paradise known to the Celts as _Tír Na Óg._ It was ruled by a pantheon of gods led by Cernunnos, the Horned god. Whenever evil in the world became too strong, or when they were summoned by the pure of heart, Cernunnos and the gods rode forth on their warhorses to hunt down and vanquish the evildoers, thus restoring balance to the world.”

“Sounds like a typical tale of good versus evil.”

“With a rather macabre twist. The riders were accompanied by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds charged with tracking the unfortunate victim, and then devouring him, body and soul. It is said that no one could escape the hounds once they had cornered their prey. Thunder and lightning preceded them, and the blowing of a ram's horn signaled their arrival. They were relentless in their pursuit, and utterly merciless in their judgment. To stumble upon a Hunt in progress meant death; those who came near were driven mad with fear. Only the pure of heart might occasionally be spared.”

Napoleon raised the collar of his jacket as a few fat raindrops began to fall. “Definitely creepy. Don't you know any happy stories?”

Illya smiled at that. “If you prefer, I can recite 'There once was a maid from Pawtucket --'”

They traversed a series of rock steps, passing a roadside shrine dedicated to Saint Brendan. A stone sundial lay broken on the ground beside a thick outcropping of wild gorse, its flowers spent now with season's ending.

Before long, a thick fog began to roll in, enshrouding the summit of _Cnoc Bréanainn._ Great bolts of yellow lightning arced across the sky, and the accompanying thunder shook the very foundations of the mountain on which they stood.

“We're not going to beat out the storm,” Napoleon shouted above the din. “How far to the caretaker's cottage?”

“Not far.”

“Let's try to make it there before the skies open up.”

The tiny _bothy_ had clearly had seen better days. Once, it had been picturesque and charming, the sort of flower-bedecked cottage seen in glossy travel brochures. Now, lichen covered the crumbling stones, and weeds took root in the various cracks in the foundation. The roof was in sore need of re-thatching as well; Illya hoped it was sound enough to withstand the brunt of the oncoming storm. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the chimney. In the window, a single candle flickered.

“Looks like the caretaker's at home,” Napoleon said. “Maybe he can scare up a hot meal for us.” He sprinted toward the cottage, just as Illya's radar went off the charts.

“Napoleon, wait. I don't think --”

The world went black.

*/*/*/

“Ah, Mr. Solo. And Mr. Kuryakin. How nice of you to drop in.”

Napoleon opened his eyes, and promptly wished he hadn't. “Doctor Dabree. So the rumors of your death --”

“-- are greatly exaggerated, thanks to my loyal Miss Flostone.” She indicated the flat-faced nurse sitting quietly by the fire. The woman was flanked by two burly bodyguards holding THRUSH-issue rifles. “Flo nursed me back to health, a long and painful process, as you will come to appreciate very soon.”

Dabree peered over her thick spectacles at the second body. “Do stop insulting my intelligence, Mr. Kuryakin. I know you're awake.”

Illya opened his eyes, and Napoleon saw, to his relief, that they were clear and alert. The Russian struggled briefly against his bonds, but to no avail. The ropes that bound them to their chairs had been expertly secured.

“You owe Miss Callaghan an apology,” he said. “Apparently five stories is not enough of a drop.”

Dabree chuckled, a chilling sound. “Callaghan? You mean that dimwitted redhead who dropped her purse beside our table in the pub? Terribly clumsy of her, I must say. I suspected she might be UNCLE. We've been watching for you ever since.”

“Good to know we've been missed.” Napoleon tested his own bonds, and found them impossibly tight.

“You needn't bother trying to escape, Mr. Solo. There are three more guards outside. There were four until recently, but the caretaker died too quickly, and I needed another test subject for my experiments.”

“Callous as ever, I see.”

“Volunteers are difficult to come by. One must occasionally make due.”

A chill shivered up Illya's spine. “If you're busy,” he said lightly, “we can come back later.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Kuryakin. I insist that you stay. As a fellow scientist, I value your opinion of my work. Yours too, Mr. Solo, although your academic qualifications are considerably more plebian.”

She turned toward the trestle table, and Napoleon noted the beaker of sickly yellow liquid bubbling over a camp stove. The smell was nauseating. “What are you cooking up now, Dabree?”

“Patience, Mr. Solo. All in good time.” She gathered various surgical implements together and laid them out upon the table. She smoothed a few wrinkles from her lab coat, adjusted her thick glasses upon her nose, and turned her attention to her captives. Her voice, smug and precise, set Napoleon's teeth on edge.

“Hidden deep in the jungles of this planet are countless prehistoric organisms, diseases to which modern man has never been exposed. Because these organisms predate us, and because they have been buried for so long, mankind has no defense against them.

“In this beaker,” she proclaimed, “is one such organism, Ibo 461, a virulent plague strain discovered by THRUSH in West Africa three years ago. In its original form, it had a kill rate of just over twenty-six percent. Hardly worth bothering about.”

“Tell that to the twenty-six percent who die,” Illya muttered.

“Now, thanks to certain modifications I have made to its structure, Ibo 461 is far more efficient.” She smiled dreamily. “If introduced into, say, the water supply of a major city, sixty-eight percent of the population would die. Once I perfect the more contagious airborne version, the kill rate will be even higher.”

Napoleon and Illya traded shocked glances.

“A few lucky individuals may survive exposure to Ibo 461 long enough to develop immunity, but the vast majority of the population will succumb long before that.”

“Of what use is a decimated world to THRUSH?” Illya inquired desperately.

Dabree's eyes held a touch of madness. “Isn't it obvious? THRUSH will be the one to decide who is spared. We will rule humanity by virtue of our power to obliterate it.”

She donned asbestos-lined gloves, and used a pair of calipers to seize hold of the beaker. She placed it on the trestle table, working with utmost care.

“Shall I show you what makes Ibo 461 so special, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon's breath caught. “No thanks. I've already had my shots.”

Dabree smiled her chilling smile. “Then I shall begin with you, Mr. Kuryakin.” She clapped her hands. “Oh, I am going to enjoy this. To think that I shall finally have the pound of flesh I vowed to take from you.”

She selected a syringe from among the implements on the table, and carefully filled it with liquid from the beaker. She peered at her captives through her thick lenses. “Now then, Mr. Kuryakin, would you like to know what my clever little virus will do to you?”

He forced himself to meet her eyes. “Well, I've always wanted to be taller--”

“By the time my virus is finished with you, I doubt you will be laughing. You see, Mr. Kuryakin, over a period of twenty-four to thirty-six hours, Ibo 461 is designed to liquify your body's internal organs.”

Illya went white as a ghost.

“Not so funny now, is it?”

She tapped the syringe with a fingertip to release trapped air bubbles. “Within minutes after injection, the Ibo 461 virus will begin to attack cell membranes throughout your body, rupturing them, ripping them apart. A billion billion explosions will burn like napalm through your body. One by one, your internal organs will liquify. Your blood will quite literally boil within your veins. You will beg for death. You will scream for it.”

 _“Ot yebis!”_ Illya spat.

 She backhanded him without missing a beat. Illya saw stars, tasted blood. “I will not tolerate vulgar language in my laboratory,” she warned crisply. “Let that be a lesson to you.”

 _"_ _Hooy na postom maslye.”_

She struck him again.

“Your heart, lungs and brain will remain unaffected until the final phase,” she went on with chilling cheerfulness, “so you will be conscious until the end. The process, once begun, is irreversible. There is no antidote.”

Dabree lifted a scalpel, caressed it like a lover. “Oh, and did I mention -- I intend to take tissue samples from your various organs throughout the procedure. Science requires sacrifice. I'm sure you understand.”

Napoleon strained at his bonds, but it was no use. “You don't need to do this, Dabree.”

She peered down at him as though he were a loathsome insect. “Do shut up, Mr. Solo. Nothing you say will make the slightest bit of difference. I want my pound of flesh, and I shall have it, 'cut from that which is nearest your heart.'”

She motioned for the nurse to roll up Illya's sleeve. “After you have watched Mr. Kuryakin scream for awhile, I will prepare a second injection for you. The screw turns, Mr. Solo. Ah, yes, the screw turns.”

The needle touched Illya's bare skin. He closed his eyes.

_We are here._

A sudden, deathly cold assailed him, raising the hair on the back of his neck, and setting his teeth to chattering. It was the cold of the tomb, of the sepulcher; it carried with it the icy touch of madness. He was filled with a sudden, terrible hope. _“Zhizn' ili smert, kak vy hotite,”_ he whispered fervently. _Life or death, as you wish._

_Death._

A horn sounded, a single, clear note.

Dabree glanced up, frowning. “Who the devil can that be? I'm not expecting any deliveries tonight. Check it out.”

The guards glanced uncertainly at one another.

“I would ask Boris to do it, but he's currently a lump of lipidinous lard sitting in a freezer at THRUSH Central. Perhaps you two would care to join him there.”

Eyes wide with terror, the guards bolted from the cottage.

“Now, where was I, Mr. Kuryakin -- ?”

_Death!_

The horn sounded again, closer now. The wind shrieked and howled, shaking the tiny _bothy_ as though it were made of paper. Thunder rattled the windows and shook the floorboards. Rain pounded the thatched roof and dripped down the chimney, dousing the peat fire burning there.

“Miss Flostone,” Dabree snapped, “go and see what's taking those morons so long.”

“Yes, Doctor Dabree.” Greta Flostone slipped a rain poncho over her head, and stepped obediently out into the night.

The horn sounded a third time, and now it was joined by the insistent drumming of horses' hooves, and the frantic baying of a pack of hounds. Someone began to scream.

_DEATH!_

The door flew open, swinging wildly on its hinges. The single candle blew out.

“This is completely unacceptable!” Dabree seethed. “I simply cannot work under these conditions! I am a  _scientist!_ ”

She crossed to the door and looked out. And looked again. Her mouth fell open; she gave an odd little squeak. “No. That's not --” Something red and viscous splattered her glasses. She recoiled, shrieking, and turned her terrified eyes upon her captives. “Help! For God's sake, help me!” A segment of bloodied entrail landed at her feet. “Oh my God, get away!” Sobbing in terror, she tried to retreat, but she slipped in the blood, lost her balance and fell. Her leg snapped, and she cried out in pain.

A shadow sprang forth, a phantasm darker than the moonless night from which it had come. It filled the doorway, its snarl low and menacing, jaws dripping blood. She tried to crawl away, but too late. It lunged toward her, seizing her broken leg in its huge maw. Agnes Dabree howled with fear, her nails scrabbling desperately at the dirt floor, seeking purchase but finding none. As Illya and Napoleon watched in horror, the thing dragged her out into the night, squealing like a pig at slaughter.

The ropes that bound them abruptly fell away. They struggled to their feet, shaking, sweating, chilled to the bone. Their teeth chattered uncontrollably. Their breath came and went in rapid, icy puffs.

“Jesus,” Napoleon said.

Outside the _bothy,_ the terrible sound of screaming went on and on.

Napoleon grabbed the fireplace poker, and was halfway to the door before he felt Illya's hand on his shoulder.

“No.”

“What?”

“Close the door, Napoleon. Lock it.”

“Lock it?” Napoleon stared in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? Listen to that. They're being torn apart out there. We've got to help them.”

“No one can help them now,” Illya replied quietly. “The Wild Hunt has claimed its prey.”

The screaming stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound of tearing flesh and crunching bone.

“Close the door,” he said again.

*/*/*/

Morning dawned fair and clear. A warm breeze ruffled the wild, green grass, and only a few fluffy clouds remained to dot the lovely blue sky.

The roof of the _bothy_ had held, a fact that amazed Napoleon and Illya when they emerged to inspect the damage. Several windowpanes had cracked, struck by flying debris from the storm, and the chimney had lost its cap, but otherwise the cottage appeared none the worse for wear.

They spent several hours scouring the area for survivors, but found none. There were no bodies to find either, only a few gnawed bone fragments, and Doctor Dabree's shattered spectacles, blood-spattered and oddly forlorn.

“The bone fragments are definitely human, and fresh,” Illya announced quietly. Of the horses and hounds, there was no sign.

Napoleon had managed to find a jar of instant coffee in one of the coolers, and heated two mugs of water on the camp stove. They took their coffee out into the sunshine -- they were unwilling to remain in the _bothy_ any longer than necessary -- and sat upon the stone wall to wait for the recovery chopper, clutching their mugs in hands that seemed never to get warm.

Illya lay back against the stones, lifting his face toward the sun. He closed his eyes.

Napoleon drank in the sight of him, feeling profoundly grateful that they had both survived, knowing how close he had come to losing everything.

Illya's face was pale in the morning light, and there were dark circles rimming his eyes. Napoleon imagined that he must look similarly disreputable; neither one of them had slept the previous night. He studied the deep purple bruise spreading across Illya's swollen cheek, and the lacerations on his wrists where he had struggled to free himself. Those wounds would heal. He wasn't so sure about the emotional scars.

Illya opened one eye. “I am all right, Napoleon. You needn't be concerned about me.”

He shook his head, chagrined. “How do you do that, Illya, always know when I'm looking over at you?”

“We agents are trained for that sort of thing.”

Napoleon watched a dragonfly alight upon the wall. It was beautiful, iridescent. It spread its wings, wet with morning dew. “For the record, _tovarisch_ , I'm concerned about both of us. It was a hell of a night.”

“And we have survived it. As for the others --”

“You were right, Illya. We couldn't have saved them.”

“No. Their own actions marked them for death.”

The dragonfly sat motionless, wings extended. Napoleon found the sight of it oddly comforting, a reminder that, despite the horrors of the night, beauty still existed in the world. He felt himself begin to breathe again.

Illya sat up with a groan. “The chopper will be here soon. We need to make some decisions about the cleanup.”

“I suppose so.” Napoleon drained the last of his coffee. “How do you suggest we report this?” he asked. “What do we tell Waverly? That Dabree and her accomplices were devoured by the ghostly hounds of -- what's it called?”

 _“Tír Na Ó_ _g_. Yes, Napoleon, I believe we should report the events as they occurred.”

He sighed. “I was afraid you'd say that. Jesus, the Psyche Department is going to have a field day with this one.”

“Let them think what they will. They were not here.”

They sat in companionable silence awhile longer. The sun rose into the cloudless blue sky, and the dragonfly resumed its journey. Eventually they roused themselves, a bit warmer now, and climbed the hill to wait for the chopper.

*/*/*/ 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
